A vacancy sign at an Econo Lodge on Route One beckoned him and he stopped. The night desk was manned by a sad-eyed man from India or Pakistan, who wore a nametag that identified him as Omar, and who seemed a little put out that his half-sleep reverie was interrupted by Ricky’s arrival. He did provide Ricky with a street map of the area, before returning to his chair, some chemistry books, and a thermos of some warm liquid that he cradled in his lap.
In the morning, Ricky spent some time with the actor’s makeup kit in the bathroom of the motel room, giving himself a fake contusion and scar just to the side of his left eye. He gave the addition a purplish-red coloring that was bound to draw the attention of anyone he spoke with. This was fairly elemental psychology, he thought. Just as in Pensacola, what folks would remember there was not who he was, but what he was, here their eyes would be drawn to the facial blemish inexorably, not registering the actual details of his face. The scraggly beard helped conceal his features as well. The fake stomach hung beneath his T-shirt added to the portrait. He’d wished that he’d also gotten some lifts for his shoes, but thought he might try that sometime in the future. After dressing in a cheap suit, he stuck his pistol in one pocket, along with the backup clip of bullets.
The address he was heading to, he believed, was a significant step closer to the man who’d wanted him dead. At least, he hoped it was.
The area he drove through seemed to him to be curiously conflicted. It was mainly flat, green, countryside, crisscrossed with roads that probably had once been rural, quiet, and neglected, but now seemed to carry the burden of upscale development. He passed numerous housing complexes, ranging from the decidedly middle-class, two- and three-bedroom ranch houses, to far more luxurious, mock mansions, with porticoes and columns, bedecked with swimming pools and three-car garages for the inevitable BMW, Range Rover, and Mercedes. Executive housing, he thought. Soulless places for men and women making money and spending money as rapidly as possible and thinking that this was somehow meaningful. The blend of the old and new was disconcerting; it was as if this part of the state couldn’t make up its mind as to what it was and what it wanted to be. He suspected that neither the older farm owners, nor the modern business and brokerage types got along very well.
Sunlight filled his windshield and he rolled down the window. It was, he thought, a perfectly nice day-warm, filled with springtime promise. He could feel the weight of the pistol in his jacket pocket and he thought that he would fill himself with winter thoughts, instead.
He found a mailbox by the side of a back road in the midst of some remaining farmland that corresponded to the address he had. He hesitated, not at all sure as to what to expect. There was a single sign by the driveway: safety first kennels: boarding, grooming, training. breeders of “all natural” security systems. Next to this statement was a picture of a Rottweiler, and Ricky saw a little sense of humor in that. He drove down the driveway, beneath some trees that formed a canopy above him.
When he came out from under the trees, he pulled up a circular drive to a 1950s-styled ranch house, a single story, with a brick facade in the front. The house had been added onto, in several phases, with white clapboard construction that connected to a warren of chain-link enclosures. As soon as he stopped and exited his car, he was immediately greeted by a cacophony of barking dogs. The musty odor of waste matter was everywhere, gaining purchase in the late morning heat and sun. As he stepped forward, the racket grew. He saw a sign on the addition that said office. A second sign, much the same as the one by the driveway entrance, adorned the wall. In the kennel closest to him, a large black Rottweiler, barrel-chested and weighing over a hundred pounds, rose up on its hind legs, mouth open, baring teeth. Of all the dogs in the kennel, and Ricky could see dozens twisting about, racing, measuring the extent of their confinement, this one seemed the only one that was quiet. The dog eyed him carefully, almost as if it was sizing him up, which, he supposed, it was.
He stepped inside the office and saw a middle-aged man sitting behind an old steel desk. The air was stale with the scent of urine. The man was lean, bald, rangy, with thick forearms, which Ricky figured were muscled by handling large animals.
“Be with you in a sec,” the man said. He was punching numbers onto a calculator.
“Take your time,” Ricky replied. He watched a few more keystrokes, then saw the man grimace at the total. The man rose and came toward him.
“How can I help you,” he said. “Jeez, fella, looks like you were in some kind of fight.”
Ricky nodded. “I’m supposed to say, ‘You ought to see the other guy…’ ”
The dog breeder laughed. “And I’m supposed to believe it. So, what can I do for you? But, I would point out, that if you’d had Brutus at your side, there wouldn’t have been a fight. No way.”
“Brutus is the dog in the pen by the door?”
“You guessed it. He discourages debate through loyalty. And he’s sired some pups that will be ready for training in another couple of weeks.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
The dog breeder looked confused.
Ricky pulled out the fake private investigator’s identification card that he’d acquired from the novelty outlet over the Internet. The man stared at it for a minute, then said, “So, Mr. Lazarus, I guess you’re not here looking for a puppy?”
“No.”
“Well, what can I help you with?”
“Some years ago a couple lived here. A Howard and Martha Jackson…”
When he spoke the names, the man stiffened. The welcoming appearance disappeared instantly, replaced by an abrupt suspiciousness, that was underscored by the step back the man took, almost as if the names being spoken out loud had pushed him in the chest. His voice took on a flat, wary tone.
“What makes you interested in them?”
“Were they related to you?”
“I bought the place from their estate. This is a long time ago.”
“Their estate?”
“They died.”
“Died?”
“That’s right. Why are you interested in them?”
“I’m interested in their three children…”
Again the man hesitated, as if considering what Ricky had asked.
“They didn’t have no children. Died childless. Just a brother lived some ways away. He’s the one sold me the place. I fixed it up real good. Made their business into something. But no kids. Never.”
“No, you’re mistaken,” Ricky said. “They did. They adopted three orphans from New York City through the Episcopal Diocese of New York…”
“Mister, I don’t know where you got your information, but you’re wrong. Dead wrong,” the breeder said, voice abruptly filling with barely concealed anger. “The Jacksons didn’t have no immediate family ’cept that brother who sold me this place. It was just the old couple and they passed away together. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I think maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Together? How?”
“That wasn’t any of my business. And I don’t know that it’s any of your business, either.”
“But you know the answer, right?”
“Everyone lived around here knew the answer. You can check the newspaper. Or maybe go to the cemetery. They’re buried right up the road.”
“But you’re not going to help me?”
“You got that right. What sort of private detective are you?”
“I told you,” Ricky responded swiftly. “One that’s interested in the three children that the Jacksons together adopted in May of 1980.”
“And I told you, there weren’t any children. Adopted or otherwise. So what’s your real interest?”
“I have a client. He’s got some questions. The rest is confidential,” Ricky said.
The man’s eyes had narrowed, and his shoulders straightened, as if his initial shock had
